After the Fall
by RavensRedShadow
Summary: Post-Reichenbach  The nightmare is over and Moriarty is dead but so is Sherlock. Or at least that's how it needs to be until Sherlock is sure John is safe. Until then, John grieves and Sherlock watches, waiting until he can return to his John. M/M
1. Chapter 1

So, I saw the latest episode of Sherlock and was inspired to write this. This is my first Sherlock fic, so please be gentle with me.

Anyway, this is Post-Reichenbach so please if you have not yet seen it don't read due to spoilers.

One final warning. Yes, this fic is M. Yes, it will most likely be graphic in later chapters. Yes, this is slash. Yes, this is Johnlock. If any of these things offend you I suggest you do not read on.

Please, enjoy!

~P.S. On a side note, no I do not own anything to do with Sherlock. This is purely a coping mechanism to distract me from the long wait that is before us.

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><p>…<em>And after the <em>_**Fall**_

_It seemed to me,_

_I had lost it all...  
><em>

"John?" Jerking back into reality the room seemed a bit dimmer than it had before. How long had I been sitting here? My therapist was looking at me, expectantly. How long had she been calling my name?

"John?"

"Yes? Sorry, we were…" What had we been talking about? I was surprised Ella hadn't walked out. Surely it wasn't much fun to just watch me sit here.

"I was asking where you've been living." No, that wasn't what she'd asked me but whatever she had asked was probably the reason I had wasted half our session staring at a wall.

"Spent some time at an old colleague's house while I was moving. Just some bloke I met when I was in Afghanistan. He offered me the couch. After that I found a flat not too far from here. I've been there for about a week now."

"And your leg John?" I hated how she always said my name, over and over like I had forgotten it or something.

"What about it?"

"It's started hurting again, hasn't it?" It had. While moving my things I had found the old cane and discovered that I needed it. My leg had only gotten worse since. Ella was staring at me again.

I never liked to look at her straight in the eyes; they always seemed to be searching me in a way I felt was disconcerting and vaguely familiar, so I always fixed my eyes on a spot behind her head, on a piece of wall that had been chipped by something, probably from her moving…

"John." I wrenched my eyes away from the wall and settled them on her chin, pretending to pay attention, "Why did you move out of your old flat? Was there something wrong with it?"

Wrong? Oh, yes it had been so very wrong. All of the clutter was gone, the experiments cleared away as if they had never been there. The quiet was almost too much to bear. But that wasn't the hard part. No, it was the fact it _wasn't_ empty.

The small scratch on the table, the smiling face on the wall, the gouged wood around the window fame where the glass had impacted from the explosion, all of it was still there; like little reminders, as if I could forget.

All of it remained, even that infuriating skull sitting on the mantle, that I couldn't bear to move. It stared down with that boney face that, in the late hours I sat awake on the couch unable to sleep, somehow managed to grow flesh and form until it was _His_ face on that mantle staring down at me, covered in blood.

Oh, right I was still in Ella's office with her staring at me with those eyes, waiting patiently for me to answer.

"I couldn't go back. Not after…"

"Not after what John?" '_His face, his fall, his grave,_ _not after those'_ I wanted to say but the words wouldn't come.

How does one begin to accurately describe their own fall into darkness knowing that no fall could ever compare to his.

"I think that's enough for today John."

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><p>"How is he?"<p>

"_Worse, if that's even possible. Mr. Holmes I don't see…_"

"Please, don't suggest that. I've made perfectly clear that it cannot be done."

"_Had you not contacted me he would have been institutionalized weeks ago. John Watson is a broken man, Mr. Holmes and it goes against my every instinct to let him continue on this way. The death of your brother has destroyed him. He needs more help than I can give him._"

"Ms. Thompson, need I remind you of who I am? Rest assured I have John's best interests at heart. However, have no doubt I will protect John Watson in any way I can. _**Any**_ way. Good day Ms. Thompson."

Mycroft Holmes was neither a sentimental man nor an emotional one but he did care for his brother. In fact, Mycroft mused, Sherlock had perhaps been the only person he had ever truly felt any kinship. Not just because they were brothers, blood ties mattered very little to him, no it was because even in their own worlds and lives they had understood each other perfectly.

Not to say Mycroft knew everything about Sherlock, for surely no one could boast that knowledge, but that he understood enough. Enough to know that his brother had protected John Watson with his life and that if he, Mycroft Holmes, wanted to honour his late sibling in any way, he would take the burden on himself. He would guard, with all of his power, the last remnant of the man who used to be John Watson, the only person who had ever truly made Sherlock Holmes smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey everyone. I just wanted to thank everyone who favorited this story and left a review. I truly appreciate it.

Anyway this is really a rather short chapter but I thought I'd just throw it out there and try for a longer one the next go round. Hope everyone enjoys and please do review. It makes me happy. :)

P.S. I do not own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. If I did...well do you really want to know?

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><p><span>Fifteen Minutes Later: Paris, France<span>

Smoke curled around me, fogging my vision for a moment as I looked out on the street from my perch on the window seat. The steady rain tapped on the window as I took another long drag, inhaling deeply. I wanted the burn of the smoke in my lungs. I wanted the hurt. The pack of cigarettes had been the first thing I'd bought on my arrival to Paris. John would be so proud.

I laughed sardonically. John. The only thing tying me to London and he was the only thing keeping me away. He was the only person in this world I would go to this length for. And Moriarty, that bastard, had known it even before I had.

_"I'll burn the heart out of you_." Moriarty had certainly done that much. Seeing John standing there at my grave had made me feel as if my heart was indeed burning. I had wanted, for the first time in my life, to let emotion overtake me; to go to John and tell him he had no reason to cry.

Luckily the thought of what Moriarty's people would do to him allowed me to squash that foolish thought. After all, John wasn't safe yet. Even from death, Moriarty's influence was potent and his presence hovered like a feeling of dread. I knew that there were those out there still carrying out his wishes. Like the men I had tracked to Paris, the reason I was sitting in this atrocious hotel room in the first place. Like the sniper primed and ready to shoot John at any sign of me.

But he hadn't won; as long as John was alive that bastard hadn't won. And I would tear apart the world to find all of the people keeping me from London, from Baker Street, from John.

Slamming my fist on the window I felt a rage sweep over me that I couldn't control. Every last one of them would pay. They would all pay for making John cry the way he had all those days ago, staring at my empty grave.

London, England

"John Watson, speaking," I sounded dull, even to myself, I noted answering my mobile. Then again my sessions with Ella did always seem to drain me.

"Oh, John dear I'm so glad I caught you."

"Mrs. Hudson, how are you?" I realized belatedly that I probably should have called my ex-landlady yesterday but somehow, just like everything else, I'd just never gotten around to it.

"Oh dear, I do hope I'm not bothering you. I was just wondering if you'd want to pop over for a bit tomorrow. We could have a nice cuppa and maybe watch that new program on the tele." She sounded cheerful on the phone, just like her old self, but I knew better. She called me like this every now and then when it just hurt too much to be alone.

"I'd love to, Mrs. Hudson. How about noon?"

"Splendid." She sounded relieved as she hung up. Secretly I was too. I missed Mrs. Hudson and Baker Street.

I missed the smiles, the laughter, the violin waking me up at three in the morning. But most of all I just missed knowing he would be there; no matter what time I got home, no matter how long I'd been gone, just waiting for me.

But there was no one waiting any more.


	3. Chapter 3

I first wanted to thank all of you that have favorited this story and left reviews. You make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside :)

Anyway I would also like to apologize for this late update. I think I rewrote this chapter four or five times before finally getting it right. Hopefully my chapters will start to get longer as apposed to shorter. Please enjoy!

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><p><strong>The Next Day, Noon: London, England; Graveyard<strong>

The cab jerked to a stop at the gate and I paid the cabby before shuffling out into the brisk wind. As I made my way down the winding path I realized that I hated it here; he would have too for that matter. He never would have wanted all this stillness and the dull gray colour that hung over the place would have irritated him. Still I imagine the quiet was nice enough, he would have been able to think in peace here, undisturbed by everyday things that he seemed to think so beneath him.

**Sherlock Homles**

"Hello," I stopped in front of him; my voice was far too loud in this field of granite headstones. I shifted my feet, looking at the flowers someone had set before his grave. No doubt Mrs. Hudson from the colour.

"I went to Baker Street today, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson won't say it but it's so empty now. It's not the same just the two of us there. You always were the topic of conversation and now it seems like we just keep running out of things to say.

She's different now. You know, I think she's rather lonely in that big house all by herself. I think that's why she prattles on, just to try and fill up the space, to smooth over the empty spot where you're supposed to be."

I licked my lips, feeling that awful feeling of hysteria bubbling up in my throat. "She told me that someone's renting our flat. Now he would never come out and say it, for fear of being labeled sentimental, but I have no doubt that it was Mycroft. I'll be honest, I don't think he's doing too well with this either. This is his way of coping I think. He's just trying to put a glass case around your whole life and leave it there, waiting for your return." I paused, my eyes burning with unshed tears, "But you won't will you? You won't ever come back." My voice cracked as I felt the traitorous tears slide down my face.

I tilted my head back sucking in the air through my nose, blinking back the moisture in my eyes. I schooled my features drawing on the stiff emotionless visage I had created so well during my time in Afghanistan.

"Everyone's been talking about you. The press is all in a frenzy. 'Famous Private Detective a Fraud!' the headlines are saying. But you know what? I don't believe a damn word of it. I don't care that I heard it straight from you. You never could fool me Sherlock and you never were good at lying on the spot, at least not to me. I don't believe it, I can't because if it's right then that bastard's won. And I'll be damned if he wins. So be alive Sherlock, dear Lord just be alive you insensitive prick."

I couldn't stop the tears now and I realized that, at that moment, I didn't want to.

**Same Time: London, England; Unknown Government Building**

I pursed my lips flipping through the documents on my desk. There was knock on my door.

"Enter," I glanced up as my secretary Anthea walked in the file folders in her hands. She was punctual as usual.

"The documents you requested sir." After placing them on my desk she turned to leave. I saw her hesitate at the door, a perfectly manicured hand hovering over the knob.

"Was there something else Anthea?" I glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised. Hesitation did not become her. She has risen through the ranks becoming my most invaluable asset by being unhesitating.

"The location 221b..." She paused, "Shall I continue to make the payments?"

"You know my answer, of course. I expect the receipt on my desk by tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." She hesitated once more. "Sir? If you don't mind me asking, are you alright?"

After a moments silence she apologized and slipped out the door.

"No, I don't believe I am." My voice echoed in the empty office.


	4. Chapter 4

So sorry about the delay. School has been crazy and I haven't had much time to write. But finally finished a chapter. Short again, I am sorry, but a chapter none the less.

Anyway please review if only to tell me what you don't like. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside :3

Enjoy...

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><p><strong>Next Day: Paris, France<strong>

I had been to France on multiple occasions as a child, forced along on business trips with my father, but I never remembered it being this miserable or this cold. I turned my collar up as I walked out the front doors of my hotel, briefly thinking about what John had said all those weeks ago about it making me look mysterious. I allowed myself a brief smile at the thought.

I made my way down the street, past a woman on her way to a secret lover and a man on his way to his dealer. But I didn't care about their secrets right now; I had my own to attend to.

At this moment only two people in the world knew that I was still alive. The ever faithful Molly Hooper and, The Woman, Irene Adler herself.

Molly's involvement had been unavoidable and after she had helped me out of the country she had reluctantly agreed to go about her life as if I was dead. Irene had been another story entirely.

After I had helped her out of the certain _situation_ she'd gotten herself into, she had decided to keep up the ruse that she was dead and holed up in Germany. That is she had been there, until I had contacted her about my own situation.

I wasn't foolish enough to trust her but I _was_ desperate enough to use her. She was the only person I could reasonably trust that had any information on Moriarty. Besides that she owed me her life, something I was defiantly planning to exploit.

I made my way into a small café and ordered two coffees from the overworked barista, taking a seat in the corner of the shop. Moments later the bell above the door jingled and she slipped into the booth across from me.

I took a moment to take in her appearance. Hair down, unkempt but recently washed with hotel shampoo. Smudges of color under her eyes told me she hadn't been sleeping but rather drinking the underpriced wine in her room instead. Her nails were chipped and drumming on the table nervously.

"I'm surprised you arranged such a public meeting. For a dead man you sure are bold." She smirked, jerking me out of my thoughts.

"I don't have time to be subtle." I said watching her plop two sugars into the coffee I had pushed across to her.

"You have no patience," she tutted "Perhaps I should teach you some?" She cocked an eyebrow, a sultry curve in her lips. I narrowed my eyes. I didn't have time for this power play or her bothersome desire. Seeing my annoyance she dropped the come hither look and folded her hands. "What do you want to know?"

"Who did Moriarty turn to as his second in command? I know he's here in the city but I don't know where."

"Moriarty's business didn't really encourage trust. He was good and to be good you have to be careful. If you're asking me who's holding the trigger now that he's gone, I can't say. There is a man I'll tell you that, but I never heard a name and I never asked. His base of operations is in the city, you're correct in that much, but if you want specifics I can't help you there either." She clasped her hands, eyeing me expectantly.

"So…they are…I mean, what I'm trying to say is…"

"They are all still in danger, yes. Moriarty was thorough and no doubt his right hand man is the same way." I stood wrapping my scarf around my neck deftly. "Be careful, will you? I may have use for that pretty face someday."

As I turned to leave I felt a hand brush my wrist. I turned to look back at her. She'd gained a few grey hairs since I'd last seen her and her lipstick was a cheaper brand, no doubt one you could purchase within the hotel, but she'd still managed to afford a suite with a window overlooking…

"I am sorry," It was a whisper as her fingers slid past my palm.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." I turned walking toward the street.

"Neither do you."

At the moment, we were connected, if only by the sheer fact that we knew the other was lying.


End file.
